On Bias
by taoueriT
Summary: Series of shorts focused around Lavi. #5: Even when you remember the words, you can’t remember the memory.
1. bias

Bias

(What do words amount to?)

* * *

"There is nothing wrong with me," he says.

He likes the cadence of the words, enjoys the softness of the consonants. He rolls them around in his mouth, the words and the sounds of the words, and decides to repeat them.

"There is nothing wrong," he says, "With me."

He believes that repetition enhances impact. He believes in the softness of sound. Do they cancel each other out, the force and the sound? Do they amount to nothing at all? Do words- are words-

It is a blasphemy of sorts. He knows belief is not truth. And who is he to question language? And who is he not to question language?

He breathes deep and keeps the words in his head, all of them. It is not difficult to do so; it is not anything at all.

The words stay. They lend a cadence to his thoughts, but he finds he cannot write.

* * *


	2. earrings

Earrings

(Junior becomes Lavi, Lavi becomes Bookman, and Bookman becomes Gramps.)

* * *

Sometimes he wonders what he did wrong. He fed the boy, cared for his wounds, made him rest when he was sick, talked to him. Told him stories of people and places that were better than fiction, of wars, taught him how to read and write, how to keep records in his head so that even if the paper burned or the ink spilled, the words were all there, folded up in his mind. He even loved the boy, a little, as best he knew how. It was more than Bookman had ever been given, and still it wasn't enough.

Bookman knew, when he saw the boy, that he was everything Bookman could ever hope for in a successor. He was extremely intelligent; he could memorize facts faster than you could say them; he had nimble fingers and perfect recall; his eyes were sharp, and his mind was sharper. And he had a thirst for knowledge. He was, in fact, almost irritating in his curiosity. Sometimes, he didn't know what to do with the boy.

He still doesn't, really, and it's been what? Twelve years. He's forgotten the exact date he met his successor, and the boy never knew it. Lucky, then, that they don't have to remember themselves.

Bookman will be a shadow one day. He feels it sometimes at the edges of his mind: a word he can't remember, a face whose name he can't recall. A few nights ago, the boy was reading aloud to him -compiled lists of the scientists and exorcists of their branch- and Bookman had had to stop him and ask, "Who? Who?" Like an owl.

The boy had laughed, had spoken lightly. "You're getting old, Gramps." He tried to look Bookman in the eye, but Bookman bent his head towards the window and seemed not to hear.

He's never had a perfect memory, as Junior has; he memorizes by will and repetition alone. And he's getting old, after all. Even Bookmen die. He knows this, and he is still afraid of dying. He thought he might grow out of his fear, with age and wisdom and all of his knowledge of the hearts of men. But he's still afraid, except that now he's also forgetful, and old.

He's recorded a lifetime's worth of events. He hopes that they are enough; they will have to be. His records have never been as perfect as Junior's.

He watches Junior write up reports in the library, efficient and intent in his work. Bookman sees that it will never be enough for the boy to observe and record. Junior has always had a thirst for knowledge. He has always been curious. And after eighteen years and forty eight wars, he's still human.

Bookman knows what he'll do.

The two work through the night and into the morning, until finally Bookman's hand aches so much that he cannot write, and Junior closes his book, yawning.

"I'm gonna get breakfast, Gramps," he announces, and turns to leave the room.

"Not so fast," says Bookman. He clutches at the boy's sleeve, fists his bony hand in the fabric and pulls him back. He realizes how late he has been writing, how weak his fingers are, and suddenly he's tired. Bookman leans back in his chair, unfastens his earrings and lets them drop, long and heavy, into his palms. They are the mark of the Bookmen; the single record that their kind exists. He looks at them for a moment, and hands them to the boy. Finally. Finally. "Take them," he rasps out.

"Gramps?" The boy looks at him oddly. "But you're not-"

"Take them," he says.

"Gramps," Lavi says. "I dunno- I mean, I haven't been-" he stops himself.

"I know," says Bookman dryly. "I'm not completely blind yet. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Lavi fidgets a little, because that's exactly what he had thought.

"This is very important," Bookman says.

"I know," Lavi says. He's irritated now. "I'm not gonna give it up, okay Gramps?"

"You love history?"

"You know I do."

"You'll write completely unbiased records?"

"You know I can't, Gramps," Lavi grinds out. "You can't. No one can."

Bookman knows this. "Sometimes," he says, "History is best written with a little bias. Emotions and friendships- they make the records more human. More accessible. Don't you agree?"

Lavi stops fidgeting, stops grinding his teeth, and really looks at him, his green eye wide. His jaw hangs open, and he gapes and forms words with his lips that never surface. His eyebrows rise up so high on his forehead that they're hidden behind his green headband.  
He looks like one surprised fish.

"What? But I thought you- but you said- but- _what?_"

Bookman thinks, That was worth it.

"D' you mean-" Lavi begins, looking at Bookman incredulously, "-About emotions- and friends-"

Bookman nods curtly. Lavi gapes some more.

"Well, you coulda told me that a long time ago," he finally manages to say, and looks a little lost.

"I didn't know it a long time ago," says Bookman.

"Are you sure that's allowed?" Lavi asks.

"Does it matter?" Bookman responds, and thrusts the earrings at Lavi. "You can get away with it. You were always a better recorder than I was, anyway."

Lavi takes the earrings, puts them in place of his gold hoops. They hang heavy and low on his ears, and he wonders for a moment if someday his ears will be as long and wide as Panda's.

So Lavi becomes Bookman, and is still Junior, and is still Lavi. In the end, names are only names.

"Now, if you don't mind," says Gramps, creaking out of his chair, "I'm going to bed."

Bookman adjusts his headband, begins to whistle, and goes off in search of his friends.

* * *

A/N: Hope you liked! I always wanted to do a fic with Bookman, cause for some reason I like him. Maybe it's his weird hairdo.


	3. impressed

Impressed

(Kanda knows what Lavi's like. It doesn't take a genius to see.)

Warning: Little bit o' language.

* * *

Kanda knows what Lavi's like.

Even when Kanda was the beansprout's age, even when he'd just met Lavi, he knew. It didn't take a genius to see that Lavi was hiding something, and Kanda was no genius. The way that Lavi had the same smile for everyone; the way that he listened to others talk, as if he was curious and disinterested at the same time; the way that for an instant, he would seem utterly unimpressed by Kanda's threats, and then suddenly and comically terrified- there was something absurd about it, and something unsettling too.

Kanda confronted him about it once, when he was in a particularly bad mood after having fouled up a mission that should have gone smoothly. He and his company had been cornered by a large number of Level Twos lurking in a church basement, and three Finders had been badly wounded in the battle -not that Kanda cared about that. It was that he'd never even been able to retrieve the Innocence that bothered him.

Kanda had been heading towards the science division to find Komui and hand in his mission report when he was accosted by Lavi in the halls.

"Hey, Yu-chan!" Lavi chirped cheerily, a large tome tucked underneath his arm. "Just got back from that mission, huh? Wow, how do you manage to keep your hair looking so pretty all the time? Doesn't it get messed up in battle?" He swept his hand through Kanda's hair, mussing it. "Sure is shiny, huh? Girly, too."

Kanda slowly unsheathed Mugen, shooting Lavi a murderous glare. "I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you."

Lavi looked at him for a moment, and there it was again: that flash of unimpressed contempt at Kanda's threats, instantly replaced by a nervous grin.

Kanda snapped. "Stop DOING that!" he roared, aiming a kick at Lavi's shins, which Lavi easily evaded.

"Doing what?" asked Lavi, an expression of clueless confusion now plastered on his face. Kanda slammed him into the wall, gripping Lavi's collar with white knuckles. Lavi's book slid out of his grasp and hit the floor with a thud, pages splayed.

"You _know_ what," Kanda seethed, outraged. "Don't you fucking lie to me."

"But your hair really _is_ pretty, Yu-chan," Lavi said cheekily.

"I'm not talking about my hair," spat Kanda, tightening his hold on Lavi's collar. "You think you're better than us. But you don't know a fucking thing. You're the one who's pathetic."

Lavi looked surprised for an instant, but his expression quickly smoothed out into a grin. "You've got me all figured out, haven't ya?" he mocked. "I'm real proud of ya, Yu-chan." Then he wrenched himself from Kanda's grasp, ruffled Kanda's hair again just to prove that he could, and bent down to retrieve his book, carefully smoothing back its pages.

Kanda had taken one look at Lavi on the ground, tending to his book, and had stormed away, disgusted.

-

Kanda hasn't thought about that for a long time. He thinks about it idly now, trying to keep himself awake as he travels back to headquarters with Lavi, who's sitting across from him in the train compartment. He's had some experience with falling asleep in Lavi's presence, after all, and he knows it's not the best idea.

But the ride is a long one, and the rhythm of the wheels on the railroad tracks lulls him to sleep before he knows it. He jerks awake just as the train rolls to a stop, and Lavi's putting the finishing touches on Kanda's new hairstyle.

"Oh, Yu-chan," says Lavi, grinning nervously. "You're awake, huh."

Kanda glares at him, wants to say something for once. He wants to say, "Your grin is pathetic." He wants to say, "You're bad at keeping secrets." He wants to say, "You can trust us."

He also wants to say, "Get your fucking hands out of my hair."

So he does. Say the last one, anyway.

Lavi tilts his head to the side and peers up at Kanda through his red bangs. "Don't you like it?" he asks pertly, still grinning.

Kanda unsheathes Mugen and points it threateningly at Lavi. "Guess."

Lavi's grin wavers. "Easy with that sword, Yu. You could cut me with that, ya know."

Kanda narrows his eyes and slides his sword next to Lavi's neck. "I know," says Kanda darkly. Lavi pales.

Kanda flicks his sword upwards, and a lock of red hair falls gently to the floor of the compartment. He smirks, and Lavi looks at him, afraid and amused. Maybe even impressed.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, Pika, Kiarra and Cubwub! They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. :D

By the way, this will probably turn out to be a series of unconnected shorts focused on Lavi. I gotta add in some humor for him too, or else he'll be getting too emo!

* * *


	4. dreaming

Dreaming

(He dreams of wheat fields and rain. Lavi-centric.)

* * *

Lavi's dreaming. It's a beautiful dream, the kind that you forget upon waking- the kind that falters and melts away when you try to grasp at it with your mind.

He dreams he is in a wide field that extends to the edge of the horizon, to the end of the universe. It meets the blue of the sky, and together the field and the sky breathe in deep with him- and it's spring and he can smell the little white blossoms of wheat on the air and pollen clings to his hair and his eyelashes and his eyes, and his coat rests heavy and thick on his shoulders and he wants to take it off and lie down and run and wade through the wheat and feel it brush soft against his skin-

And the wind ripples it into an ocean of gold.

He walks through the sea. The wind ripples the sea white with foam and suddenly it's autumn and he wishes for his coat because he must have left it somewhere far away and he knows he'll never find it again and the wind is strong and he is flimsy and cold and his bones are hollow, bird-like. The wind blows through his hollow bones and he does not fly.

He shivers and tilts his head to the cold blue sky. It's a blank sky, and stupid, and it tells him nothing. He tilts his head back down and sinks into the golden sea until everything is thick with darkness. He wonders why he sinks but does not dwell on it. There is no use for dwelling on anything.

When he turns he finds his hands covered in ink. It smells deep and wonderful and his fingertips drip ink onto the carpet and he lifts his hands up and catches the drops with his mouth. They taste like warm clean water and he brushes his hands over his face and his eyes and the sky is gray with rain. It always rains in London.

The rain is warm and Lavi does not need a coat. He walks through the streets and loves the sound of rain on the cobblestones. Shadows play on the bricks of the buildings and shift along the walk. He is the only one in all the city, in all the universe, and he's still not alone. He loves it and he loves the rain and he loves and feels loved and he almost laughs but he's too happy. Rain slides down his cheeks and into his hair and loves him back.

Lavi wakes slowly and stares out the window. He hears the rain drum on the roof and finds his room bathed in soft shadow. He does not laugh the entire day and people wonder what's wrong. It must be the rain, they say.

* * *

A/N: I hope you like random freaky half-surrealism or else you probably don't like this very much. Or maybe you don't like this even if you DO like random freaky half-surrealism. But it was really fun to write! Sorry there aren't any characters in it besides Lavi and that it's not really deep, revealing introspection. Hope you enjoyed, anyway!


	5. rewrite

Rewrite

(#5: Even when you remember the words, you can't remember the memory.)

* * *

I'm old- too old to really put my heart into anything except trying to remember things, and people. Everything I've recorded recently is still too fresh to count; like the old man told me back then, I guess the important things really do become evident with time.

But now I'm older than even he'd been back then, and I'm sort of starting to wonder if recording everything in words wasn't the wrong thing to do somehow, after all. My memories don't seem to match up with the things I'd written down about all of them, when I was young and handsome. Not that I'm not still handsome now. I like to think that I am, even if what little hair I still have is whiter than the kid's had been.

I wonder if they think about me sometimes. If maybe they're like me too, trying to really

_remember_

even if I'm so old now that it seems like all I can do is

_reword-_

but I can't help going over and over my old accounts- and no one's with me now who was there back then, to correct my mistakes- and I just can't seem to

_recall--_

_Did your name use to have so many letters?  
__There were words in your movements that I could not read.  
__But maybe they weren't words. Sometimes  
__it's hard to tell what words and feelings are.  
__You try to find words for anger  
__and your anger slips away.  
__You stumble along with a story  
__and no one can make out the point.  
__Trying to say things with words  
__ends in a sort of tradgedy.  
__Or it's a tradgedy  
__as soon as you find the words to say it.  
__To spell things out is like remembering  
__a song without the sound.  
__Sometimes I think I can think you up.  
__I remember all the words you said  
__in a voice that wasn't your own._

I'm old. I can't imagine any of _them_ old, though. Sagging bodies, sagging skin- it wouldn't suit any of them. They were never built for old age, and seeing them like that might be strange, even wrong, somehow. I don't want to see them as they are now.

But I'm always wanting to see them as they are now, because- maybe I could compare them to my memories. I could tell them things, new stories and all sorts of stuff I didn't know back then. We'd sit there, wrinkled and old, feeling glad and sorry for ourselves, and things really wouldn't be the same as they were back then, but it'd be okay, because some things are better off being different. Maybe I could go back- _go back-_ and remembering wouldn't be so important- wouldn't be important at all.

But they're all so far away, and I have an apprentice now, and responsibilities, and I'm _old_-

I rewrite all the records I'd written before. Then I check and recheck, and beside me, my student finishes writing and rushes off to her friends.

I would have done so many things, but I still have so many things to do...

* * *

A/N: Thanks for the really nice reviews, asdfasdfg, Just A Realistic Dreamer and cubwub! Yet another sort of depressing drabble... and I really have to put in something that has other characters in it. This was pretty much a shameless attempt to get some poetry in there, yeah. I know the poem didn't make much sense in the context, eh heh. I think I might separate it out later. Still, hope you liked!

* * *


End file.
